She came to with a jolt, the sound of dripping, slopping water dashing her sundrenched dreams.

‘Shit! The bath!’

It was too late. The water had overflowed the tub, and was spreading with horrible speed across the marble floor. She made a grab towards the plug, slipped and nearly brained herself on the taps, caught herself on the shower rail, which she half wrenched out of the wall, and managed to plunge her hand into the water.

The ice cold water.

She pulled the plug, watched the water drain away, then grabbed clean towels from the bathroom cupboard to mop up the spillage. Oh God, there would be complaints again, if the water had leaked to the floor below.

Cold.

Why was the water cold? Not just tepid, like a hot tap left running too long, but freezing cold.

She phoned down to the concierge. They’d have someone up within the hour, they assured her.

Victoria splashed cold water on her face and neck, made a coffee, lit a cigarette and returned to her dreams of Porto Cervo.

The door buzzer woke her; she’d dropped off, a half-smoked cigarette burnt out in the ashtray, a cup of cold coffee congealing beside it. She was in a bad mood now, her headache even worse.

‘About bloody time,’ she muttered as she opened the door, preparing to take her bad mood out on whatever fat bald idiot they’d sent up this time.

Then she abruptly changed her mind.

Six feet of dark blue overall stood before her. Large, spade-like hands held a toolbox and a piece of pink paper scribbled with job details. Scanning up, Victoria took in a lean, triangular torso, broad shoulders, a thick neck and – oh, my God, the cheekbones! The cropped blond hair! Was she still dreaming?

‘Mrs Crabtree?’ The voice was heavily accented, eastern European, obviously – well, he was a plumber – but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Yet.

‘Yes, I’m . . .’ She couldn’t be bothered to correct the form of address. ‘Come on in. Please excuse the dressing gown. I was about to have a bath.’

He grinned, followed her to the bathroom – was that his pale blue eyes she could feel burning on her backside? – and put his toolbox down on the wet floor. Victoria’s eyes darted down the front of his shirt. His chest was hairy, a few plumes coming over the neckline. That five o’clock Pilates class now seemed a rather distant prospect.

‘The water is freezing cold,’ she said, perching on the edge of the sink and pulling her robe around her. ‘Is there a problem with the boiler?’

‘I look.’ Ah, a man of few words. ‘Where is?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t really have a clue . . . Somewhere in there, I think.’ She gestured vaguely towards the cupboard where she kept towels. He opened it, crouched down, stretched up, displaying his long legs, round arse and massive back to excellent advantage. Victoria feasted her eyes. It had been too long since she had seen Massimo. How long? Two weeks? More like three. And in all that time, no fun for Victoria. No fun at all.